Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 75

Five Days, Eight Hours, Two Minutes

Parker watched as the blast shielding lowered over the glass separating the White House conference room from the War Room. Beyond it, he saw the concerned faces of Olga Vukavitch and Isaac Mentnor and Chief of Staff Ethan Stoddard. He wondered what it was each of them cared about in this room. Was it the President? Was it the events that were about to be discussed … the possible secrets revealed? Was it concern for Bradley Talmadge and Channing Michelson? Was he in any of their thoughts? He wanted to believe that he was despite the fact that he didn't belong here, in this time, in this room, in this universe. The whole business of time travel had somehow turned upside down and inside out. The clocks were ticking instead of tocking, tocking instead of ticking, and now here he sat – a stranger in an even stranger land – with perhaps one of the biggest pieces of the temporal puzzle – bigger than he could've or would've possibly imagined – but that was always the gamble. It was always about risk. He knew that each person looking into the slowly sealing conference room cared for something entirely different. He hoped that someone – he didn't care who – said a silent prayer for him.

The metal plates clanked shut, and he heard the hiss of compressed air flooding into the contained room.

"Gentlemen," President Campbell began. He walked away from the doors and stepped up to the table. Before him, there was a small leather case. Reaching down, he unzipped the parcel and opened it, laying it flat on the wooden surface. Inside, Parker saw several long syringes, each filled with a glowing, shimmering liquid.

"Is that what I think it is?" the chrononaut asked.

"Chroniticin," the President explained. "In the interests of national security, we keep an ample supply here at the White House." Carefully, he reached down and plucked two syringes free from their retainers. "You have to understand: I've already been inoculated. With several of the temporal events that have occurred in our universe, Frank, the Cabinet insisted that I be given immunity. I think they were afraid that someone – either an alternate version of yourself or some other time travel – would accidentally infect me with temporal radiation. I never believed it could happen, but … you know Cabinets? They tend to play watchdogs when the commander-in-chief is concerned."

He gripped the first vial in his palm and walked over to Talmadge. "Director, if you'd be so kind as to remove your jacket?"

"Of course, Mr. President."

Promptly, he stood and slipped his coat off. Rolling up his sleeves, he smiled. "I'll bet this takes you back to your days in the military, sir."

Campbell smiled. "I was never truly gifted as a field medic, so I won't promise that this won't hurt a bit."

"Understood, sir."

The President carefully dipped the needle into the director's elbow, and he slowly pushed the plunger down. "I understand you'll experience a warm, tingling sensation. That's what I recall anyway. You might feel lightheaded, but it's nothing to cause alarm. It should pass in a few moments. With this current version of the serum, the positive effect – protecting you from any undue harm – only take a few minutes."

"Thank you, sir."

The man smiled. After inoculating Michelson, he returned to the head of the table, replaced the empty vials in the case, and sealed it. Relieved, he sat back in the high leather chair, and he studied the curious expression on Frank Parker's face.

"Frank," he began, "have you ever experience a backstep like this one?"

Smirking, the chrononaut replied, "Mr. President, I've seen some very strange stuff. I've crossed over into parallel worlds, if that's what you mean. But … I'd have to say 'no.' I've never quite seen anything like this." He shrugged. "I guess if you say that time travel is a contest, then this would sure as hell be the booby prize."

All of the men gathered around the table chuckled.

"Not that it's of any real consequence," the statesman tried, "but have I been President in each of the worlds you've encountered?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Parker offered, "but I never kiss and tell."

They laughed again, and Parker was glad to finally be at ease. He knew that the circumstances facing this man were dire, but he was impressed that – even in the midst of what appeared to be an insurmountable crisis – the man still found the courage to laugh.

"You know," Campbell said, "so long as this doesn't leave this room … I'll safely admit that I've never been one in support of these time trips you've made, Frank. Or yours either, Channing."

The two chrononauts glanced at one another. Parker thought he saw an expression of guilt in the younger man's face, but he couldn't be certain.

"Well," Channing tried, "I think I speak for Frank, Mr. President, when I say that we'd love to live in a world where Backsteps weren't necessary."

"Oh, it's not that," Campbell countered. "Let me explain. I'm all in support of a strong national defense. Unfortunatley, when you're dealing with acts of terror or even random acts of … well … God … Fate … whatever you choose to believe in … I've always supported putting right what we believe went so horribly wrong. That has never been in question. But … like the Mallathorn … I've always put the long term effects under great scrutiny."

"Sir?" Talmadge asked.

"You know," the man continued. "What about … what about if the event we're altering … this catastrophe … what if were truly meant to happen? What if it were an absolutely essential event tied to the development of our people, our culture, our world? Could it be that something we've found wrong – by a limited definition – was actually good for the planet?"

Parker raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't we know?"

Campbell relaxed in his chair. "That's the central conceit, I guess, Frank. We think we know. It's one of the responsibilities about occupying the Oval Office. I'm taxed – as those are in my employ – to make decisions that alter the fate of our nation, and we presume those decisions to always be for the good of our government, our people, our way of life. But suppose … suppose, for example, that a Backstep were used to minimize Frank's exposure to our universe?"

"It was my understanding, sir," Talmadge interrupted, "that the NSA left that option on the table."

"Oh, they did," he agreed. "They did. It was talked about – with much emotion, I might add – for a few hours. But I kept asking one question: what if Frank – this Frank Parker – was supposed to arrive here?" He clasped his hands in the air before him, gracefully resting them on the table. "What if our normal definition of a catastrophe – a truly, awe-inspiring, fear-inducing catastrophe – brought with it the message of hope?" Slowly, he shook his head. "I can't tell you how much my advisors tried to convince me otherwise. It wasn't until I heard from the Pentagon that Larnord demanded an audience with this Frank Parker that I knew I had made the proper decision."

"The right decision," Michelson interjected. "Isn't that what you mean?"

The man lowered his head for a moment, lost in thought. "Channing, I guess that depends on what your definition for a 'right' or a 'wrong' decision is. Personally, I don't think of them as polar opposites. I try to think of every choice as an opportunity to learn something new. You know? To master one more lesson. To accomplish one more good deed." He smiled. "There's an old Chinese proverb I don't recall perfectly from my college days. It says something about even evil serving a purpose. I suppose when you approach life from that perspective, you're always open to … possibilities."

They grew quiet for a moment.

"All right, Frank," the President announced. "I think it's about time you took off the helmet."

"Sir, regardless of the universe, I've never heard you issue a better order."

Parker reached up and pulled the tabs on the helmet's collar. Rising, Michelson shuffled behind the man's chair, and he helped lift the orb off his head. Carefully, he placed it on the table in front of his counterpart.

"Thanks," Parker acknowledged.

"Like you said," the man said, "I know better than anyone how much that thing weighs."

Leaning forward, Campbell reached out for the photograph. He pressed it under his fingertips and gently slid it in the direction of the other three men. Parker reached out, lifted it up, and he stared into the dark eyes.

"Would you like to start us off, Frank?"

Slowly, Parker turned the photograph around. "The man you're looking at is Majd el Din Zamal," he explained easily. "As I told Bradley and the others in the briefing in NeverNeverLand, this is the man I was sent back in time to save. In my timeline, Mr. Zamal was working for the President and the Secretary of State toward securing a peace plan in the Middle East. Again, just to remind everyone else, he was primarily a businessman, and he was using the contacts he made with a whole host of countries to establish secret channels for negotiation. Apparently, it was believed that he was the first person who might be able to achieve some lasting success ... if it wasn't for the fact that he ended up dead."

"How did it happen … in your timeline?" Campbell asked.

"He is killed in what we learned was an act of terrorism, an explosion that destroyed the Heston Tower," Parker said.

"And that's in your timeline?"

"Yes, sir."

"Anything else you can tell us about Mr. Zamal?"

Parker sat back. "Nothing really. A businessman. His codename was Lone Ranger."

"Did his name appear on any government watch lists?"

Parker shook his head. "No, sir. None at all. As a matter of fact, that's one of the things … to tell you the truth … that we found a bit odd in my timeline."

"Why?"

The chrononaut shrugged. "Well, since I guess that decision wasn't necessarily made by this sitting President, I guess I can say that it didn't make any real sense. Not to me. Certainly not to Bradley. Not to any of us, really. I mean … I can certainly understand that Zamal was working on behalf of the American government, but, given the state of affairs in the world and the elevated level of threat, it would only stand to reason that someone was watching him." Parker held up his hand. "You know? The FBI. The CIA. The NSA. Homeland Security. Somebody would've been watching him." He pointed at the picture. "You can't tell me that a man this powerful traveling to all of those countries – some of which have established ties to terrorist networks – wouldn't have fallen onto somebody's radar. If he were really having these meetings – secret meetings with high officials of sworn enemies to the United States – then someone would've been watching him. It only stands to reason. But … we looked and looked. His name never made a dent."

"How is that possible?" Talmadge asked.

"It isn't," the President replied. "At least, in any reasonable frame of reference."

"How do you mean, sir?" Michelson tried. "If Frank says that Zamal never figured into any intelligence circle's equations, then why should we second-guess it?"

"I'm not second-guessing Frank," the man explained. "I'm agreeing with him. In any reasonable world, this man – Majd el Din Zamal – would've been on the subject of a Presidential threat matrix briefing at some point."

Curious, Parker leaned forward. "You do know the man, don't you?"

Campbell nodded. "Yes, I do, Frank. I've met with Zamal a number of times. As a matter of fact, I've had several discussions on the topic of peace that you've eluded to having taken place in your timeline. There is no doubt in my mind that, in your world and mine, he was serving the same purpose … but that would mean that he deceived both you and me."

"Sir?"

With his fingertip, the President spun the black and white photograph around. "Under one of his aliases, this man goes by the name Emile Luga. As it turns out, he was using his international contacts to smuggle weapons into the United States for what we believe were future terrorist attacks on stateside interests. Homeland Security was more than well aware of Mr. Luga's activities, but, using Executive Privilege, I kept them at arm's length with the hope that we could eventually uncover all of his contacts in order to unravel the terrorist network he had created. I don't doubt that he may've been sincere on his efforts at working toward some kind of peace. I was to meet with him in a few days, but he managed to slip away from us. Of course, we've been tracking him very closely. He somehow slipped our agents in Mexico, and he turned up here. Luga represented the worst kind of criminal the world has to offer: one who works to perpetrate fraud on both the forces of good and evil. In short, he's vermin, and the world would be a better place were he eliminated from it."

"Mr. President," Talmadge began, "I don't understand. If this Emile Luga and the Luga from Frank's timeline were essentially correct, then why would the NSA order a backstep to save his life? I would think that they'd be happy to have this man removed from any position of influence."

Campbell smiled. "That is, perhaps, the most important question we need to answer, gentlemen."

"Why?" Michelson asked. "Wouldn't it be more appropriate to stake out the Heston Tower and arrest him when he arrives?"

"I'm afraid that Mr. Luga won't be keeping that reservation, Channing," the President explained. "The Washington DC police and Craig Donovan were investigating a fire that destroyed a weapons cache at an area storage facility, and Emile Luga was found dead."

"Dead?" Parker reached up and stroked his chin. "How is that possible?"

"Well, there is one constant between your timeline and mine, Frank," Campbell said. "Death. In yours, Luga dies in a hotel explosion. In mine, he dies in what the authorities insist is an act of arson by Richard DeMarco, a known terrorist. In either case, foul play surrounds him."

"DeMarco?" Talmadge interrupted. "You mean … he's somehow tied to Luga?"

"We're working on the suspicion that they may have been relatives," the President announced.

Confused, Parker shoved his chair away from the table. He couldn't believe it. He refused to believe that he had been sent back in time to avert an act of terrorism … all to save a terrorist?

"This," he said, rising, "is crazy."

He stepped away from the table. Holding up a hand, he brushed it hard across his face. "With all due respect, Mr. President … this isn't making any sense at all."

"I wouldn't suspect it would, Frank."

The chrononaut paced about the room, glancing from one face to the next. "But … if Luga's already dead … then that would mean …"

"Frank."

He stopped and turned to face Michelson.

"What did Larnord tell you?"

"What do you mean?"

"He told you that events … single events in time … had been re-ordered, didn't he?"

Slowly, Parker turned. "You're saying … what exactly?"

Michelson rose. He walked over to where the man stood. "I'm saying that, regardless of the timeline, maybe what the President said a few minutes ago was the reality you're not facing. Maybe Luga was meant to die. Maybe his death serves some purpose, both in your world and ours."

He shook his head. It still didn't make any sense, and, much worse, he was getting a headache trying to consider all of the possibilities.

"Don't look at the big picture," Michelson counseled him. "I know that's what you're doing. It's what I would be doing … if I were in your shoes. I've been there. I know how the brain works. You start guessing, and then you start second-guessing. Time travel … it's one big chain of dominos that you're trying to stop from falling down. But, in this case, don't look at the entire chain. Look at the one domino. Look at the one event. Think it through. There has to be a connection." Reaching out, he pat the older man gently on the shoulder. "Come on. You wanted me in here for a reason. You and I? We share the same skills. We share the same experience. The only person in this room that's been to both timelines is you. Now, think about it from the individual. Concentrate on Luga. There has to be some connection."

"Channing," Parker spat, "that's impossible!"

"It isn't," he insisted. "There are plenty of other similarities, but there's only one event that brought you here."

"The death of Zamal … or Emile Luga," the chrononaut agreed.

"Think it out."

Parker took a deep breath. For a moment, he covered his eyes with a hand.

"All right," he announced. "In both worlds, Luga dies."

"That much, we know for certain," Talmadge agreed.

"The manner of death is different," the President offered, "but both are violent, nonetheless."

"No," Parker stated. "That isn't it. The fact that the man died … I don't see how that could be a connection except for the fact that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Or maybe," Michelson said, "he was at the right place at the right time … in both worlds."

The chrononaut lifted his eyes and stared at his counterpart. "What did you say?"

"He was at the right place," Michelson repeated, "at the right time … both in your world and ours."

"But … his death didn't serve any purpose in my timeline," Parker reasoned. "At least, I can say that it didn't serve any purpose I knew of."

"It had to," the President challenged. "He's our link. There must be some connection that Larnord wanted you to uncover."

Frustrated, Parker walked back to the table. He grabbed hold of two empty conference table chairs and noisily slid them across the floor. Carefully, as the others watched, he positioned them across from one another in the open floor. He faced the seats toward one another, placing them about six feet apart, and then he stood in the middle. He glanced at the first dark chair, and then he turned to stare at the second.

"Frank," Talmadge began, "besides rearranging the furniture, what are you doing?"

The chrononaut smiled. "I'm doing what Channing said. I'm focusing on the little picture." Crouching, he muttered, "I'm focusing on the single domino." Once he was down, he glanced over his shoulder at the other chair. "Two chairs. Two worlds. Two men."

Stepping over, Michelson reached out and carefully tipped the first chair over, setting it on the floor.

"The man's dead," Parker said.

Walking around to the other chair, the young man upended the second chair, letting it clatter on the solid floor.

"So's this one," he added.

Parker squinted at the fallen chair. He considered it, lying there, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. For all its shape, it was empty, a void waiting to be filled, waiting to be put right, waiting to stand up and welcome another into its embrace … but it couldn't. It could never be right again. It could never be whole again. It could never have the same meaning that it once held for whoever it …

"Bingo," he muttered.

"What?"

"I said 'bingo,' Mr. President."

"Bingo?"

"Yes."

Rising, Parker reached out and slapped Michelson on the shoulder, thanking him for the assistance.

"Channing's right," he explained. "We're looking at the question from the vantage point of trying to place it into the biggest scheme of things to come." He approached the table slowly, his eyes quizzically calculating each word before he spoke. "In my world, Luga's death set one series of events in motion, and in your world it caused another completely different set to unfold. Forget about those things. Forget about what happened after … and, instead, let's think about what happened before."

"I don't understand," the President tried. "Are you saying … are you saying the fact that Luga was secretly working both ends of the peace process for his own personal gain somehow weighs in?"

"No." Quickly, Parker sat down next to the President. Reaching out, he took the statesman by the arm. "Mr. President … you said so yourself … Luga was on the watchlist, but you used your executive influence to keep him out of the spotlight."

"Yes?"

"In my world, someone worked against your interests," he said. "Don't you see?" He gripped the man's arm more tightly. "It what you're telling me is correct … if you knew that Luga was a terrorist … if you knew that his removal from the face of the Earth wouldn't exactly be the worst news to start your day … then why would I have been ordered to go back and save his life?"

"That's easy, Frank," Talmadge interrupted. "As we've already discussed, Luga had built a network that our country could've used against the terrorists."

"Precisely," Parker agreed. "But in both worlds, there's one question that I can't answer: how did either of those chairs get into the country?"

"What?"

"Luga," he corrected. "How did he get into the United States? If he was on the watchlists, then you would've been alerted. In my timeline and yours, Luga slipped through."

Parker rose. "Someone's helping him. Someone helped Emile Luga slip under our own noses and onto our soil. Someone wanted him here … and that person is the link we need to explore." He waved his arms. "You're right. Luga is dead in both timelines, and Channing's right. That death must mean something."

Again, he glanced around at all of their faces.

"If we figure out that single domino, we can stop the entire chain from collapsing."

END of Chapter 75